Have you ever felt like everyone around you, including yourself is waiting to die? Like we are all waiting around for death to be the climax of our lives because we can’t figure out how to get ourselves to the rising action?
I don’t know, maybe I’m just weird, but I feel that way often. I don’t think I’m alone though. There’s all this energy inside of me—this raw, primal energy to break away from it all. From family, teachers, friends, relationships, spouses, kids, the house, the job, the car payments, the five-dollar lattés from Starbucks, the gyms where we all run around looking like god damn rats in their spinning wheels, and most of all: from society.
I mean, I think you can at least agree with me when I say that sometimes we’re all so nose deep in bullshit everywhere we turn that we just can’t ignore it anymore. At some point we must acknowledge this deep yearning to cleanse ourselves of all the lies. But this is how we’ve been groomed, right? To be afraid of chances, of uncertainty, adventure and most of all, of living.
I overheard my neighbor down the street yesterday talking to someone as I was walking past the two of them. She was saying how she always wanted to live in South America and spend her days writing a novel. She spoke about how she read in books about all of the beauty and marvel of South America. Must have been the rainforests and all. Well, just as she finished her last sentence about her dreams of South America and such, I looked over at her. I mean, I really looked at her.
What I saw in her eyes was this far-off, dreamy gaze, which was lined with a trace of sadness. It was like she saw in her mind her dreams floating away slowly in a glass bottle across some ocean, and she knew that eventually the glass bottle would disappear into the horizon, lost forever to an endless, foamy-blue mystery. But at the same time, her deep, brown eyes hinted that she still held some hope that maybe one day the bottle would find its way back to her, and that at that point, maybe she could muster the strength to open it.
Anyways, I’m not that interesting really. I’m just another screwed up, melancholy dude. I really just think about the shit that people spend their lives trying not to think about. But really, who cares anyways? We’re all too preoccupied with sitting back and watching our dreams float away gradually, until one day we wake up and find that they’ve become merely a tiny, insignificant speck on the horizon of our minds.